


The Inferno Club

by SwissMiss



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alpha/Alpha, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, BDSM, Collars, M/M, Painplay, Public Sex, Story: The Adventure of the Illustrious Client, Victorian Kinks, Waxplay, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 21:31:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5349218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/pseuds/SwissMiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I'm easy to find," said the young woman. "Hell, London, gets me every time."</i>
</p><p>The real story behind <i>The Adventure of the Illustrious Client</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Inferno Club

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cleflink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleflink/gifts).



> Based on [The Adventure of the Illustrious Client](http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks/c00012.html#illu), which is my new favorite ACD story. This is omegaverse, but a kinder, gentler omegaverse in which there are no heats or mating frenzies. My deep gratitude to Lorelei_Lee for help with Victorian BDSM practices. She is a font of esoteric knowledge. And a huge thank you to thesmallhobbit for help with all things Victorian, British, and grammatical. Both of them signed up for something of a much smaller scope but gamely agreed to keep going as this expanded beyond all reason.

The basic facts of the tale of Baron Adelbert Gruner, Miss Violet de Merville, and Miss Kitty Winter will be familiar to loyal readers of both the _Strand_ and court dockets, but I hope it will not come as a surprise when I divulge that some minor yet key details were withheld or altered in the publicly available report. I have been persuaded to present here an unabridged version for the archives of the Inferno Club, with the strict understanding that no copies are to be made and that the original will reside in the private collection, to be shared only with those of similar bent and used only for the enlightenment and improvement of that particular portion of the club's membership in those practices which are peculiar to it.  
  
Little could we have known when my friend Sherlock Holmes passed me Colonel Sir James Damery's note that it would not only provide the supreme showcase for the great detective's remarkable and diverse talents, but also open a door that would fundamentally alter the course of our lives from that moment forward. It was not quite a year after the end of my second marriage when this remarkable case came to Holmes' attention. I have refrained from detailing my latter foray into wedlock in my published writing for various reasons, chief amongst them being respect for my former spouse and her reputation, but in no less part my own shame at the events which led to her petition for divorce fewer than five years after our wedding. It will be useful now, however, to touch on some pertinent points which may serve to illustrate my state of mind and set the stage for what came after.  
  
The whole unfortunate affair was entirely my fault, of course. I should have known from the start that our natures were incompatible, but I deluded myself into believing that as I had passed the mark of two score years, my natural alpha drives and passions were no longer of consequence, or at least could be ignored in favor of such noble qualities as a temperate character, a firm and economic hand in running the household, and a generous indulgence of my running around with my pal Holmes, as she used to put it.  
  
It wasn't long, however, before we both found ourselves frustrated and ill at ease. That "running around" had a tendency to whip up my blood and excite my temper, delivering me back to my homestead in a state which my dear first wife, Mary, had found pleasantly invigorating and eminently compatible with her omega biology.  
  
My second wife, however, was a beta both in body and at heart, and naturally did not share the same proclivities and interests, although she never spoke a word of complaint. As a dutiful spouse, she did her best to accommodate me, and I in turn to avoid inconveniencing her, but our intimate interactions soon lost all semblance of warm spousal affection and became nothing more than a study in duty, denial, and dread.  
  
Now that all is said and done, with the insight that so often comes after the fact, I believe the true source of my altered state lay not in the thrill of the adventure itself, but in the person of my companion, Sherlock Holmes. To witness the perfectly attuned interaction of the physical and the mental which he embodied, the lightning fast reactions of his razor-sharp mind and his finely honed physique, the noble heart reflected in those features as perfectly formed as if chiseled by the hand of a master, led to an admiration of both his form and his functions coupled with a fervor that bordered on obsession and a possessiveness which I judged entirely natural and innocent. I was after all not an invert and never considered that the life force which quickened in me at the sight and even thought of the great detective could be anything more than an expression of the deep bond of comradeship which often forms between men of many years' acquaintance, who have faced down death and celebrated life together. We were alpha brothers-in-arms, like-minded souls, companions in toil and tears, our mutual devotion transcending bonds of blood or marriage... and, as it transpired, the law.  
  
Such was my condition, then, when Colonel Damery requested an audience that Thursday afternoon. The interview was intriguing but in the end did not seem the sort of thing that would attract Holmes' attention. In the first place, our visitor refused to name the benefactor who had sent him on his errand, and it is Holmes' sworn policy only to work for clients who divulge their full history to him. (I know now that he had deduced the identity of the bashful client by the end of Colonel Damery's first visit, although he did not reveal it to me. Consequentially, he never actually disregarded his credo.)  
  
The second, more compelling point it seemed to me, was that there was no murder to be solved, no mystery at all to be discovered. Holmes' sole charge was to be the convincing of Miss De Merville not to marry the erstwhile Austrian wife-killer, Baron Adelbert Gruner. I speculated that Holmes' interest might have been piqued by the circumstances of the first Baroness Gruner's death, of which her husband was certainly the cause but for which he had neatly and under suspicious circumstances side-stepped being brought to justice. Not so; that which had stumped even the combined police forces of the kingdoms of Austria and Bohemia was deemed too mundane for Holmes' attention. Instead, he intended turning his intellect to matching wits with a man whom he declared - in chilling reminiscence of his unlamented departed nemesis, Professor James Moriarty - to be in possession of a complex mind, as all great criminals are, and accepted Colonel Damery's challenge.  
  


~~.~~.~~

  
I suspected as soon as I saw Holmes from across the dining room at Simpson's later on that same evening that he was "shamming omega". He had a certain way of comporting himself, a slight looseness about the hips that invited thoughts of plush, slick flesh and a straight-legged gait that belittled his most salient alpha trait. My suspicion was confirmed as soon as I took my seat and the light, sweet scent wafted across the table. It was a perfume of his own invention, perfected over the years until not even I, who knew its origin, could distinguish it from the emanations of a born omega. Yet despite its verisimilitude it did not tempt me nor stir any desire in my loins. I know this was no fault of the concoction itself, as I had seen alphas falling over themselves to fawn on Holmes when he applied it. Instead, I was gripped by the usual irrational sense of unease that came over me whenever Holmes appeared before me in this guise.  
  
He was a virtuoso in the art of costuming and disguise and through the course of our many years of acquaintance I had witnessed him in every form from rakish scoundrel and heavy-browed thug to gentried matron. Yet no alter ego agitated me to such a degree as that of the false omega, even (or perhaps especially) when the rest of him remained Holmes. It was wrong in the way of a two-headed calf or a midnight sun, and it made me want to do nothing more than tear his clothes off and cleanse his body of the false scent with my bare hands.  
  
It was a confusing impulse, to say the least.  
  
Holmes' accursed lips quirked ever so slightly with smug suffisance as he registered my uncontrolled reaction.  
  
"The sole will be dry: the head waiter's cravat had a faint orange stain which--"  
  
I tuned out the rest of his no doubt brilliant elucidations and looked around for a waiter so that I could order something stronger than the white wine which had already been decanted into a carafe on the table. He had even modulated his voice, pitching it slightly higher and softening his consonants. It was for Sir James' case, certainly. It was always for a case, as far as I was aware. I was suddenly disappointed, for that meant he might spring up in pursuit of some suspect at any moment. After a late afternoon spent wrestling with some financial matters associated with my practice, I had been looking forward to an unrushed dinner, followed by a long evening of cigars and brandy with Holmes back at his rooms in Baker Street.  
  
When the waiter responded to my gesture, I ordered both a gin and the sole.  
  
Holmes grinned openly and launched into a resumé of his plans for the investigation. I tamped down my unnecessary sentiments and attempted to be of some use, as a sounding board if nothing else, as he once again went over the facts. There was nothing new, aside from some suggestion that he might consult one of his underworld informants, until he let drop that he had visited the very villain himself, Baron Gruner, that afternoon.  
  
My eyes widened. "You don't mean to say you called on him like that." I nodded meaningfully at his person, knowing he would understand me. The Baron was a devil of an alpha who made a living preying on omegas across the continent. To walk into his parlor under the pretense of being one was akin to a fly dropping in on a spider.  
  
Holmes lifted his wine glass and held it delicately by the stem. His eyes gleamed in the unfamiliar yellow glow of the electric lights which had recently been installed in the establishment. "You heard Sir James' assertion that Gruner is said to have the whole of the omega gender at his mercy. I was interested to see how he would attempt to overcome me. I'm afraid I left disappointed in that regard."  
  
"Holmes, this is no light matter," I said with a disapproving frown. "The man is notorious, the worst of his breed. There's no telling what he might have done."  
  
Holmes appeared delighted at the scolding. "Good old Watson!" he exclaimed. "I assure you I was perfectly safe. He has breeding in him, all right. He is a real aristocrat of crime and an excellent antagonist. If there had been even the slightest suggestion of danger, I would have asked you to come along, my dear."  
  
I should have been mollified by his last remark, but Holmes continued to sing Gruner's praises and I set to sawing at my dried-out - and by now cold - fish. I supposed I should count myself lucky that Holmes was merely amused by my reprimand rather than offended. It might have been taken as a disparagement of his abilities or judgment. I knew full well that Holmes could take care of himself and was quite a neat boxer when the occasion called for it. I put it down to the omega perfume. Perhaps it had an effect on me after all, although I could not deny that I had similar desires to protect and preserve my friend from harm even when he was acting his native alpha through and through.  
  
I was half lost in my muddled thoughts and still anticipating a quiet end to the evening when Holmes tossed his serviette abruptly onto his plate and rubbed his hands briskly together.  
  
"Well now, Watson, finish your coffee. Friend Shinwell has invited us to his club, and we will need to stop off at Baker Street first."  
  


~~.~~.~~

  
In my previously published account, I placed our appointment with Shinwell Johnson at Holmes' residence. In fact, we were to meet him - being one of Holmes' most valuable contacts amongst the less savory elements of the city - at a notorious club Johnson frequented. It will become clear why it was necessary to obfuscate on this point shortly.  
  
"Nothing I can say will prepare you, Watson," Holmes explained once we had gained his rooms. He went straightaway to a cabinet and pulled out a box where he kept various accessories and embellishments for his disguises. "I will warn you only that it is a peculiar place, where ladies and gentlemen, alphas and omegas, gather to indulge in an exclusive form of entertainment. It will probably be most helpful if you think of it as a kind of clinic where its members may receive treatments they cannot find anywhere else. Oh, and put this on me, if you please."  
  
He handed me a black leather band about an inch thick and a little longer than my forearm. It looked like nothing more than a very short belt, with a silver buckle at the end to fasten it.  
  
"I'm afraid you're going to need to tighten your corset rather severely if you want to fit this," I joked.  
  
"It goes around the neck," he corrected me, stepping close and lifting his chin.  
  
He still smelled like omega, and the dichotomy was even more irritating in close quarters than it had been across the table earlier. Now that he was near enough for me to discern the wine from dinner on his breath, I also caught a whiff of a faint secondary note that I immediately identified as his own particular scent. I did not think it was marked enough for a stranger to be confused or suspect that he was anything other than the omega he portrayed, but I found myself leaning in to chase the fleeting olfactory trail back to its source, greedily inhaling the air that was infused with those precious emanations. Before I knew it I had the brief, disconcerting urge to lean in and sink my teeth into the fleshy part of his shoulder at the back of his neck, but the horror at the realization that I was actually imagining bond-biting my alpha friend quickly doused the fantasy. I jerked back, momentarily dazed.  
  
"Is it a token that will gain us admittance?" I asked presently. I knew that some clubs distributed a ribbon, scarf, pin, or other small item as a sign of membership, although I had never before heard of nor seen a leather strap around the neck serve such a purpose. The question was posed with what I felt was exemplary calm as I lifted the piece to place it against the pale skin of his exposed throat, resting my wrists on his shoulders to steady them and conceal the shakiness that had inexplicably come over me.  
  
"A mere formality, nothing more," he assured me, but where he had lifted his chin I could see his pulse beating rapidly in the hidden hollow beneath his jaw, belying the detachedness of his words.  
  
I hesitated again, my gaze flicking from that traitorous spot to his face. He had closed his eyes and flared his nostrils as if inhaling an elusive yet exquisite vapor, his features betraying a wistfulness and perhaps even desire that both surprised and disquieted me. For unless he had developed a strong and sudden affinity for tanned cow hide, the only other proximate source of a scent he rarely enjoyed so intimately was myself. I had not doused myself in a masking omega scent, and to judge by the pace at which my heart was presently hammering in my chest and the rising temperature inside my collar, I would be fairly reeking of alpha.  
  
I became suddenly and pointedly aware of how close we were standing, the solid expanse of his chest mere inches from mine. For all that he gave the impression of having a narrow frame, it was an illusion caused by his height and the long, concealing mantles and cloaks he wore. He was in reality a powerful specimen, his musculature well developed and maintained in top form by the sparring matches in which he frequently participated.  
  
I had never before wondered at his lack of interest in forming any intimate connections. He always said he had no use for omegas, and I took him at his word. Truly, there was no place for a mate in his life. He was satisfied with his dabblings and investigations, and the hours he kept would have driven any omega in their right mind to distraction. But in that moment - and truthfully, in many other moments during our acquaintance that I had habitually dismissed as preposterous and unlikely - I saw another possibility. Not that he was an invert; no, I did not believe he desired his own gender any more than he did either of the other two. But at that moment, I had to wonder if the tender look on his face were not a reflection of the same suppressed impulses to which I was subject from time to time, and had narrowly escaped succumbing to scant moments ago.  
  
He must have noticed that I had paused in my task, as his eyes snapped open and his expression returned to its usual aloofness. I tried to do the same, the realization that my face was even more likely than his to have revealed my thoughts making it difficult to achieve. I hurriedly lowered my gaze to the buckle and fumbled to fasten it in place. My fingers could not help but brush his neck as I did so, and it took all my willpower not to continue the caress up to cup his jaw in my palm.  
  
Finally, I snatched my hand away, clenching my fist. "Must you wear that hideous perfume?" I said gruffly.  
  
He stepped back, straightening his waistcoat and craning his neck as if to test the feel of the leather circlet. "I'm afraid it is a requirement of the club that every alpha guest be accompanied by an omega and vice versa. And forgive me, Watson, but even with the assistance of the most potent chemicals, it would be quite obvious to even the most unobservant stooge that you are an alpha."  
  
I blushed, thinking he was drawing attention to my unacted-upon impulses of moments ago and the resultant wash of alpha elixir coursing through my veins. Then his words penetrated even that red-hot layer of shame, and it dawned on me what he was proposing.  
  
"Then I am to be... That is, you are to be..." I blustered, not quite sure why the idea disconcerted me as much as it did. Two gentlemen of opposing gender might easily attend a club together without being more than superficially acquainted. For surely he intended nothing further.  
  
"A mere formality, as I said." He reached for his hat and held the door open whilst I gathered my own hat and cane.  
  
"Will I not need a token as well?"  
  
"You mean the collar? No, only one member of each pair wears one. You needn't fret; I have no doubt you will be a natural in your role tonight, Watson."  
  


~~.~~.~~

  
It is difficult now to recall with any precision, as the memory of that first visit has since been overlaid with many subsequent ones, but I believe that the first thing which my senses registered when the heavy padded door of the Inferno Club swung open to admit us were the sounds. I was used to hearing voices upon entering a club: the murmur of conversation punctuated with bouts of laughter, greetings called out across the room or even the occasional raised tones of a heated argument. I was unprepared for the grunts accompanying the sharp report of leather on slick skin, the hissed intake of breath following the cutting slash of a birch switch through the air, the breathy, high-pitched pleas for "one more, please, sir," and the panting moans of intimate physical pleasure.  
  
The next of my senses to be assaulted was my nose, as it was met by an odiferous melange of smells. Cigar smoke and candle wax, leather and oil, the briny tang of sweat and the biting odor of human exertion, the faintest metallic whiff of blood or iron paired with a strangely floral note, and most peculiarly a scent I associated exclusively with the medicinal application of the violet ray, which I had seen demonstrated at a conference in Paris just before the turn of the recent century. Whilst I had not yet procured a model for my own practice, it was already all the rage as a treatment for ailments ranging from arthritis to tumors. This alone might have supported Holmes' description of the place as a kind of medical institution, were it not for all the rest.  
  
The room itself was unremarkable, resembling a tastefully appointed, if relatively large, parlor. Its walls were covered in wallpaper with a modern, dark green floral pattern and accessorized with the usual mirrors, portraits, and classical paintings. The gas lamps on the walls were turned down to achieve a nostalgic, twilight effect, which was further enhanced by the faint haze that hovered near the ceiling. The fashionably upholstered chairs and sofas scattered in clusters around the space offered ample opportunities for repose. Potted plants and vases filled with fresh flowers added the final touch of refinement. However, those were all details which utterly bypassed my notice that evening, their impact becoming inconsequential in comparison to the actors who peopled the scene, and the acts they were engaged in.  
  
Here was an alpha man locked in the stocks, his trousers pulled halfway down to accommodate an omega woman - armed with a broad wooden paddle - in maltreating his bared bottom. There a female omega wearing nothing but a thin white shift, her arms held up by ropes suspended from a hook in the ceiling, being beaten by an alpha female wielding a tentacled flogger. And just over the shoulder of another gentleman, I caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a woman - I could not discern whether alpha or omega - draped across a lap and being spanked quite thoroughly with the switch I had heard before.  
  
Each of these dioramas had attracted a handful or more observers, who stood by or lounged in one of the conveniently placed seats, watching the punishments - for such I assumed they were - with attitudes ranging from curiosity and appraisal to morbid fascination and outright lechery. The entire tableau resembled something out of a medieval manuscript on Catholic torture methods, yet I could not detect anything sinister in the atmosphere. Holmes had hesitated to describe this place in any detail, yet I was certain he would have warned me were there any danger or chance of harm coming to either of us.  
  
I was about to turn to him and pose the first of the many questions urging themselves upon me when a nearby buzzing drew my attention. I looked to my right and discovered an omega man kneeling on all fours on top of a table, entirely nude, his legs spread and fixed in place with ropes threaded through metal loops on the sides of the table. The position exposed his most intimate parts in a shockingly graphic manner to all and sundry, but most especially to an alpha standing directly behind him.  
  
The latter was of middle years, with a high forehead, thick black mustache, and ruddy complexion that spoke of a penchant for horses and hunting. He was fully clothed, but even from my disadvantageous angle I could not miss the prominent protuberance swelling his trousers beneath his belt. The omega on the table was likewise signalling readiness for connubial congress, his sex flushed red and swollen, the hairs surrounding it dark with moisture from the copious amounts of the clear mucous material it was secreting that would ease his lover's entrance. Even at a distance of several feet, I could smell the evidence of his interest and could not help my body responding instinctively to his intense omega scent.  
  
I surmised that we were witnessing another spanking - for what purpose I could not fathom, for it appeared both alpha and omega were highly pleased with each other - when I was surprised to see the alpha reach his hand forward, wielding the violet ray whose distinctive scent I had apprehended earlier. Rather than pressing the glass wand firmly against his omega's skin to achieve the proper therapeutic affect, however, to my horror he carefully guided it between the bound man's legs until it was a finger's breadth away from the vestigial member which hung limply beneath his belly, and held it steady there in the air. I cringed, anticipating the crack of discharge and the bright violet light which arced from the instrument to the helpless appendage. The omega jerked forward against his bonds and cried out a word that might have been "Nine!" even as the crowd (for the display had garnered a respectable audience in addition to Holmes and myself) gasped in unison.  
  
I must have cried out as well, or given some other indication of my instinct to rush forward and preserve the poor fellow, for I instantly felt a hand at my elbow, a body at my side, and a familiar voice in my ear.  
  
"Observe, Watson," it admonished.  
  
The brutal alpha was now stroking the abused omega's rump, murmuring praises with an expression of such tenderness on his face I could not believe it was the very same man who had moments ago administered such a cruel treatment. The omega was breathing heavily, his flanks heaving and his head hung down between his shoulders. The alpha bent over to drop a kiss onto his omega's buttock while his hand slid in between. It was impossible to see what he did there, but the omega seemed to approve, rolling his hips and making sounds that drove even more of my own blood into places where it would soon become troublesome. Common dignity demanded that I look away, yet I felt compelled to discover the purpose of the exercise. Holmes had urged me to observe; ergo, it followed that there must be something he wished for me to discover.  
  
Just when the omega seemed on the verge of completion, the alpha abruptly withdrew and straightened. "One more," he said, his voice betraying how far gone he was himself despite the authoritative tone. "Just one more, darling. I know you can do it."  
  
The omega nodded and firmed his back, bracing for the inevitable. I watched along with the others now in breathless fascination as the alpha moved the buzzing apparatus forward once more, and this time when the report sounded and the omega croaked out, "Ten!" before collapsing into a shuddering heap cradled in his alpha's arms, I felt not disgust and shock but pride, relief and approval that he had withstood the test.  
  
"A rather extreme initiatory ritual," I muttered to Holmes beneath the excited murmuring of the other guests, for I now believed that was what these trials were.  
  
The horrible suspicion had already begun to form in my gut that the two of us would be expected to undergo a similar ordeal when Holmes replied, "That was no initiation, Watson. That was the main event. It is for this purpose that the club was founded, and that its members gather."  
  
I raised my eyes to his in confusion and disbelief, but again before I could pursue the matter we were hailed by a large, red-faced man with the blotchy skin of the scorbutic and a pungent, sour aroma I often picked up from other alphas, Holmes and a scant handful excepted. I took an instant and virulent dislike to him. His vivid black eyes revealed the cunning mind hidden behind his coarse exterior, and I knew before he spoke that this was Shinwell Johnson.  
  
"Well, Holmes, I see you've found your way down to Hell." Johnson clapped one fat hand on his shoulder and shook Holmes' hand vigorously with the other. I didn't like the way his beady eyes gleamed greedily as he took note of the collar around my companion's neck, and I stepped up to Holmes' side. If I had understood the rules of this place, I was his alpha tonight, and I did not intend to let another usurp my role.  
  
"Dr. Watson and I have just arrived."  
  
"A doctor, is he!" Then, turning to me: "I wonder what you make of all of this."  
  
"I am baffled," I admitted.  
  
"It's all in good fun, you'll see," Johnson assured me. "There are some who like to pack a wallop and some who like to get walloped. Ha! Well, you will see indeed."  
  
"You mentioned something about an omega who might have some information for us," Holmes cut in before I could formulate a reply to those rather cryptic remarks.  
  
Johnson looked from Holmes to me in surprise. "You let him speak for you? If he were my sub, he'd get a lash or two for that." I was unfamiliar with the term he used, but understood that his statement was an insult to the both of us. Holmes might not genuinely be my omega, but even if we had not been playing at it, I would have bristled at the attempt to impugn my alphahood and challenge our relationship.  
  
Holmes, however, was not intimidated. "As long as it were a tongue-lashing, I'd be willing to take the licks," he adroitly parried.  
  
It appeared this was a satisfactory answer, as Johnson threw back his head and roared with laughter. "By God, there's one for the books. For that I'll tell you Kitty Winter's the gal you want." He shoved his chin back toward the couple with the violet ray.  
  
The omega had now been released from his bonds, and his alpha was helping him down from the table with the assistance of a slim, flame-haired young omega woman. She might have been pretty were it not for the pinched set of her pale face and the marks which only years of hard, sinful living can leave behind. She bore a white sheet, which she draped around the male omega's shoulders. As it settled, I noticed that he wore a collar around his neck similar to the one Holmes had had me put on him. It was not identical, however, being broader and brown. The alpha had no collar at all, and the female omega - Kitty Winter, I presumed - displayed a pretty silver trinket gleaming proudly around her slender neck.  
  
I looked around at the other couples playing out their scenes, realizing that the victims all had collars of different shapes and sizes whereas the perpetrators' necks were bare. Shinwell Johnson did not have a collar, which made me distrust him even more. Had Holmes not said that alphas were only admitted together with an omega? Where then was his? And why had he insisted on Holmes coming here, tonight, when we might have conducted the interview in Holmes' rooms instead?  
  
I was distracted from my suspicions by the sight of Johnson's meaty hand moving toward Holmes. I was on the verge of knocking it away before I could even think about it, until I realized he was only stopping Holmes from moving toward Miss Winter and the others.  
  
"Here now, you've only just arrived," Shinwell Johnson said in a jovial enough sort of manner that made me want to knock a tooth or two out of his head. "What about a bit of fun before you get down to business?"  
  
"That won't be necessary," Holmes rejoined, and I quite agreed. The sooner we were quit of this place, the better.  
  
"I don't know, Mr. Holmes," Johnson said with a hard glint in his flinty eyes. "I say it is. After I went to all the trouble of wrangling you an invitation."  
  
"And if I say that time is of the essence, and that a woman's life is at stake?"  
  
"Then I say you'd best make up your mind, or Kitty'll keep for another time. Go on then, be a sport. Dr. Watson's seen a thing or two he likes anyway, I'll warrant." His dark gaze flicked down my body, as if picking up every sign of my involuntary reactions to the sights, sounds, and smells around us, and most particularly of the wanton omega.  
  
"I've seen some things I haven't liked much," I said directly, not caring if it angered our interlocutor.  
  
The good-natured sheen on Johnson's countenance wavered, letting something uglier show through. "No one's twisting your arm, Doctor. I reckon there's plenty of Doms here can show Holmes a thing or two."  
  
"That won't be necessary," Holmes said loftily. "Dr. Watson and I will find something suitable, I am sure. I simply wouldn't want to miss the opportunity to meet Miss Winter."  
  
"Oh, no chance of that," the incorrigible Johnson assured us, hooking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. "She's on the job, you see."  
  
"What job is that?" I asked. She and the other couple had disappeared in the time we had been making our acquaintance.  
  
"Nothing fancy, just helping them get settled who want someplace to finish up in private." Johnson leered at me, as if daring me to misunderstand his meaning.  
  
Recalling the alpha's distended trousers and solicitous kisses, the omega's flushed, wet entrance and needy gasps, there was no possibility of that. I believe Johnson hoped I would react with disgust and shock so that he would have an excuse to rescind the invitation that had allowed me to accompany Holmes that night. Holmes, of course, would never hear of leaving until he had achieved his purpose, and I could not let him stay alone. I was certain that Johnson would be only too eager to offer his services to an abandoned omega.  
  
I returned the stare and said only, "We are prepared to wait."  
  
"Then we're all agreed!" The scoundrel rubbed his hands jovially. "You'll go a round or two and when you're done, your gal will be there to yak. I don't mind telling you I'll be interested to see what you fancy."  
  
So that's how it was: we must succumb to the fellow's prurient curiosity in exchange for an interview with the informant. An ugly barter, and not one I was pleased to have entered into. We moved away from the odious alpha into the relative anonymity of the crowd, but I felt his sharp gaze following us. Had we really just agreed to engage in some act of personal violence in exchange for an audience with a hostess of debauchery?  
  
"This is madness, Holmes," I muttered as I followed him deeper into the room.  
  
"A moment of insanity, perhaps. But it will serve a purpose."  
  
"I won't hurt you," I warned him.  
  
But he dismissed my objection out of hand. "It won't be any worse than I've had in the ring."  
  
I mulled this over as we began our circuit, ostensibly on the lookout for a role to emulate, but I was barely aware of the intimate scenes which played out before us. The only thought in my mind was how to get away from this place without having to inflict pain on my beloved friend. It was true that the acts we had witnessed here so far seemed designed not to cause any permanent damage, and that Holmes had been subjected to worse in his life. I knew he spoke the truth when he said he would not be bothered by a few slaps. Still, I could not see my way clear to raise a hand against him, much less a weapon. Yet I knew he would insist, not only in order to be granted access to Kitty Winter but because he would not want to back down from the challenge and lose face with Johnson.  
  
I had one more objection, too. There was an erotic element to many of the demonstrations being put on around us. Contrary to what one might presume, my concern was not touching or being touched in an intimate manner by an alpha, or more to the point, by Holmes. At least not in broader theory. It would be akin, I imagined, to certain explorations on both living subjects and corpses which we were called upon to undertake as students at the medical college. Admittedly, as I would be the subject in this case, I was not anticipating with any large degree of enthusiasm being forced to do so under the eyes of dozens of strangers. But that was still not what had a lump of worry forming in my gut.  
  
I had been able to convince myself quite easily up to this point that it didn't really matter if it came out that Holmes was not truly an omega. At worst, we would be given a scolding and escorted out of the club. However, if we began to engage in anything that so much as hinted at a more intimate connection and Holmes' true gender were to be discovered, we would instantly place ourselves in a precarious position in the eyes of the law.  
  
It was possible that Johnson, for one, knew of Holmes' farce already. Their acquaintance extended back several years, and I did not know whether Holmes had been careful to always apply his perfume and affect his omega qualities on previous occasions. Was that why our host had been so insistent that Holmes and I participate in the night's events? Was he hoping to trap Holmes, or create an opportunity for later blackmail? It was doubly frustrating because I had no chance to draw Holmes aside and share with him my concerns. Yet how many times in the past had I voiced some objection or other, only to discover that Holmes had accounted for and defended against every one, and half a dozen more besides? No, I had to trust that he had prepared for every eventuality, and that we would bear no ill consequences of the night's further course.  
  
We stopped behind a cluster of people surrounding another couple. The nude, collared alpha was standing upright, blindfolded and with a rope wrapped several times around his lower abdomen and hips, trapping his arms at his sides. I was so distracted by the sight of his engorged purple cockstand protruding from between two of the coils of rope, and his bollocks painfully squeezed between two more, that I didn't notice at first the three or four long-stemmed thorny roses wedged in between his buttocks like some kind of unnatural tail.  
  
His omega, a tall, long-nosed woman with carefully coiffed hair and an expression of intense concentration, was rolling the stem of another rose over his bare chest, taking care to prick his nipples every time she passed over them. Tiny spots of blood dotted his skin, and his entire body was taut with tension. After a moment, I understood that he was trying to remain as still as possible under the torture, for every involuntary twitch would cause the thorns trapped between his gluteal muscles to gouge further into the sensitive skin.  
  
The audience apparently approved wholeheartedly of the display, following every move with rapt attention and whispering enthusiastically at every gasp from the trussed-up subject. It was like something out of Dante's most fecund and nefarious fantasies, which almost made me laugh when I remembered where we were. But the momentary insight was quickly pushed aside by the renewed spark of prurient interest unfurling in my loins. It was merely an empathetic response, of course, yet I wondered what it was about the treatment he was undergoing that caused such an enthusiastic reaction in him. Were the nerves somehow misled into signalling pain as pleasure, similar to the sense of cold that was induced through the application of warm eucalyptus oil?  
  
"You find this intriguing," Holmes said in my ear, his voice low enough that only I could hear amongst the other couples likewise sharing their opinions between themselves.  
  
"I am intrigued and bewildered by the entire premise of this place," I admitted. "But I cannot muster any enthusiasm for the practice. I am afraid I will not be able to strike you, but if I had to choose anything it would be something along these lines."  
  
"Really, Watson?" Holmes peered at me curiously. "I would have pegged you for a more combative man. Now I am the one who is intrigued."  
  
"Not... the baser responses," I struggled to explain. "I mean the restraints and the more... gentle methods. But even then..." I tried to imagine applying the thorns to Holmes' fair skin, pressing hard enough to puncture the surface and draw his life's blood out of his body. I had done surgery countless times, cut into bodies both living and dead, removed arms and legs, eyes and spleens, been splattered from head to foot with blood, bile, and feces, and rarely shied away from the task. Yet the thought of harming Holmes in even a minor way without a healing purpose, was utterly revolting and repugnant to me. I would do it, of course, if he insisted, but it would be at the cost of great inner struggle.  
  
Holmes continued to stare at me, his brow furrowed. "But Watson, where is that pugilistic fellow so often found in the thick of the fray? I did not imagine this would be so unusual a task; you have never shied away from employing your fists before."  
  
"Against an enemy deserving of reprimand or punishment," I pleaded. "Not my dearest, most beloved companion."  
  
His studious expression collapsed as understanding arrived. He drew me aside to a quiet corner, away from the slaps and cries that continued to resound through the room.  
  
"My dear Watson, forgive me. I have made an error in judgment." His contrition appeared genuine, a condition as astonishing as it was rare.  
  
Nevertheless, relief flooded through me. It was not often that Holmes miscalculated, but coming here to meet Shinwell Johnson had brought us no satisfaction. Even if it meant he lost the chance to find out whatever it was that Kitty Winter knew, it would be better for us to leave this place and return to the safety and sanctuary of Baker Street.  
  
Holmes continued, "I had thought you would prefer to take charge, as a military man. But I failed to account for sentiment. I am afraid it is unfamiliar territory to me. Never mind, we won't dwell on it any longer. Remove the collar from my neck, if you please."  
  
I gladly complied. I had not liked it on him in the first place, and my dislike for it had only increased once I understood its significance. Holmes did not deserve such treatment as was doled out to the guests in this strange place.  
  
"I am confident we can find another way to talk to Miss Winter without going through Shinwell Johnson, if you still feel it necessary for the case," I explained in an attempt to console him.  
  
"Naturally, although it may be too late by then. Gruner is the type who would push for an elopement if he senses the hounds of the opposition nipping at his heels. But if you will trust me just a little longer, Watson, I believe we can wrap up this end of the investigation quite neatly tonight."  
  
"I trust you implicitly, Holmes. Simply tell me what I may do."  
  
"Oh, the faith you place in me, Watson. I hope only that it is not misguided. I am going to ask something of you which you may find terrible, but I pray that when I do, you understand it signifies nothing less than my complete faith in you. And before I speak further, I give you my solemn promise to do nothing that would cause you any kind of mortal pain or suffering. Your welfare is primary to me."  
  
His words gave me pause as possibilities rushed through my head: that I abandon him here, that I denounce him, perhaps even that I commit a violent act against some third person (oh that it would be Shinwell Johnson), but I had not brought my gun and I feared that any of the guests here would simply laugh and beg for more if I were to attack them with my fists. I had no hope of guessing what he might require of me, but no matter what it might be, my answer was plain:  
  
"I am your man," said I.  
  
"Then wear my collar," was his solemn response.  
  
It was quite possibly the last thing I might have imagined he would say. Presently, I came to my senses enough to become aware that I was still holding the thing. I had unwittingly crushed it in my fist, so great was my contempt for what it signified. And now my closest friend was asking me to take on its burden and - if I understood correctly, and I was certain I did - to submit myself to whatever punishment, pain, exposure, and humiliation it held in store.  
  
I had just told him I would do anything, yet now I felt the need to qualify: "Not for that devil Johnson. Anything but that," I growled.  
  
Holmes looked as horrified as I had felt at the thought of the rogue touching him. "Never!" he cried. "Watson, that you would think me capable of allowing such a thing! I will be your commander, director and guide. I will select a task I am confident you will be able to master, and you will scintillate. Yes, the more I consider it the more I like it. I think this trial will be quite interesting after all."  
  
I could see him warming to the idea and knew then that I could not deny him. Where would the harm be, after all? I had to admit that none of the subjects we had seen being worked upon tonight had exhibited any displeasure with their position. Quite the opposite, in fact. I did not understand how pleasure might be gained from being struck, beaten, whipped, or pricked, but it was not necessary for me to enjoy it. I needed only to follow Holmes' command, to allow him to lead me through this as a foot soldier follows his captain through the territory of the enemy. There might be injuries suffered along the way, but the true and valiant leader would ultimately bring his troops across to safety and victory. I had long since recognized that Holmes truly was my commander in this strange civilian world, the one upon whom I relied, in whom I had implicit faith, not because of his great intelligence but because of his great heart.  
  
I agreed.  
  
Holmes asked for the collar and placed it around my neck. It was still warm and supple from his skin, and smelled ever so faintly of him. This, at least, I did not mind. If there were nothing more to it, I might even have been pleased to receive such a token of him. Once he had it fastened, he fussed with it until he was satisfied with its position, turning the buckle to the back so that it would not scrape against my Adam's apple.  
  
"You wear it well," he said finally, his voice low. He lifted his eyes from the leather band to my face and smoothed his hands down my shoulders. I was taken aback at the fierce pride mixed with tenderness I saw in him then.  
  
"As I wear it for you, it is my privilege to do so."  
  
Visibly touched, Holmes squeezed my shoulders once more and stepped back, muttering something about needing to find several items.

Not ten minutes later, we were able to appropriate the space which had recently been abandoned by the couple with the birch switch. I took my place on the still-warm seat, trying to ignore the curious looks that were already being directed our way. Holmes had a bowl in one hand and a length of rope in the other. The bowl came from one of the side tables where the rose-filled vases resided and contained several fresh chestnuts, no doubt intended as a decorative seasonal touch rather than a snack, as they were still in their porcupine-like hulls. Or perhaps they had been left there to be used for the very purpose which Holmes intended, and which I was yet entirely innocent of.  
  
He set both items down on an empty chair nearby and stood in front of me, his hands steepled before his mouth, looking me over as he would a piece of evidence.  
  
"Do you require a blindfold?" he asked me when he was quite ready.  
  
I glanced at the audience that was beginning to gather, murmuring and nodding to each other as they assessed our equipment, positions, and physical forms. Our dubious benefactor was amongst them, of course, his arms crossed over his massive chest like one of the sultan's guards in the seraglio. If I were blindfolded, I could imagine that we were alone. I was not at all certain at this point that that would be conducive to a good performance on my part, however, and that was precisely what I needed to remember: this was nothing more than a performance. A test which we needed to pass. It would not do to allow my emotions to hold sway over my actions, which was precisely what I was afraid would happen if I were left to my own devices in my head, with no anchor in reality. Not only that, I wanted to see him. I wanted to register his approbation and be able to adjust my reactions and responses according to any cues I might pick up from him, and for that I needed all of my senses. I therefore said I would prefer to keep my eyes open, and he did not argue.  
  
"Remove your jacket, waistcoat and shirt," was his first command.  
  
I understood that we were going to imitate in some manner the scenario of the roses which we had recently witnessed, but I did not know how far Holmes was going to take it. I had no desire to expose myself in the manner the bound subject had done. However, I considered that his rampant pose had more likely been due to the proximity of his omega than any other manipulations. As Holmes was neither mine nor any sort of omega at all and I was strangely immune to his false scent, I counted on there being little chance of a similar situation arising, in a manner of speaking.  
  
Still, my was mouth dry and my heart racing as I complied with his direction. Holmes watched me silently with his keen, stormcloud eyes and I wished for a moment he had blindfolded me after all. I had gone bare-chested before him countless times - in fact, we had visited the Turkish Bath just two days prior, where we thought nothing of going about wearing naught but a towel covering our loins - but this was somehow different. I felt exposed and nervous. Not because of the others around us, but because I had never handed myself over to him like this, allowing him virtually free reign over my body. The spectators around us were as air, no more significant than specks of dust on the windowpane. Holmes was the only light I could see, his gaze the only one that both warmed and chilled my skin.  
  
Holmes took each item of clothing as I divested myself and laid them over the back of the chair with the bowl and rope. He then picked up the chestnuts and approached me.  
  
"Do you trust me, Watson?"  
  
I had already told him so, but once again I nodded and answered affirmatively. I had no idea what was going to happen, what he was going to do. It would likely be painful, to some degree, perhaps embarrassing or even humiliating. But I wanted to prove to him ... something, I did not yet know what. That I did trust him. That I would help him. That I would do whatever he needed, whatever he asked of me. That his approval was more important than my comfort.  
  
"Raise your arm."  
  
I lifted my left arm, and Holmes delicately took two of the prickly balls out of the bowl and held them out to me. "Put these into your armpit and lower your arm. Make sure they don't fall out."  
  
As long as I held them lightly between my fingers, the spines didn't prick, but the weight of my arm would drive them into the soft, tender skin underneath. I thought of the blood-speckled chest of the man with the roses and considered I would soon present a similar picture. I held the chestnuts in place with my right hand, took a deep breath and lowered my arm.  
  
There was a sudden burst of pain. It was not excruciating, but my instinct was to lift my arm again immediately and shake the offending objects out. I gritted my teeth and let the weight of my arm drop further. I did not want to disappoint Holmes.  
  
And it appeared that I had not.  
  
"Very good, Watson," he said with genuine feeling. "I knew you were the man for the task. How does it feel?"  
  
I straightened my back and shifted my shoulders back. The pain decreased as the spines were crushed and settled into place. "Fine," I said firmly, nodding to give him reassurance.  
  
But that was the wrong answer. He frowned and shook his head. "No. No, I don't want you to lie. You can be brave and still feel pain. I want to know, Watson. I need to know. You must tell me. How does it feel?"  
  
"It hurts a bit," I admitted. "But not the worst I've ever had. It's like being pricked with a dozen needles, but quite localized. The initial shock was the worst part, although I can still feel them now."  
  
"Good, Watson. And now the other side."  
  
He held out the bowl, this time allowing me to choose the chestnuts myself. I took two that appeared to have an abundance of spines and put them under my other arm. Once again, there was an initial bloom of unpleasantness, but as I knew what to expect and let my arm settle in place more quickly, it was less intense than the first time. In fact, I found that if I sat perfectly still, it was barely more than a niggling twinge.  
  
"Are you quite comfortable, Watson?" Holmes inquired archly, obviously having noted my relaxed state.  
  
"Not quite, but it's honestly not so bad. If I'd known this was all there was to it, I would not have tried to spare you."  
  
"Then we must endeavor to intensify the experience. We wouldn't want you to leave disappointed." I knew the teasing words were spoken mainly for the benefit of the audience - from whose midst a knowing chuckle arose at his jest - and most particularly Shinwell Johnson; but I was grateful for his playful mood as well.  
  
He held the bowl out again and had me add additional chestnuts, one after the other, until the space under my arms was full, and even then he caused another bowl to be fetched and continued pressing the things on me, bidding me hold my arms against my sides with the prickly hulls squeezed in between. The discomfort was not to be ignored any longer. I was forced to shift and contort my body to work the chestnuts in without letting any fall, which caused even more chafing and scraping. My skin was covered in a sheen of perspiration from my efforts and, no doubt, in direct response to the assault on my nerves. This in turn irritated the tiny cuts and punctures even further. I had no doubt the entire area from armpit to ribs and the insides of both arms would be fiery red and raw.  
  
There was no way to go but forward. I had no thought other than my task, the bowl and its dwindling contents. When it was empty, I would be released, as the omega who had to withstand ten shocks had been. The observers around us were a blur of color and atonal buzzing. I was aware only of Holmes murmuring encouragements as I worked, and once or twice he reached out to touch my shoulder, perhaps to adjust my posture, acknowledge my efforts, or simply remind me of his presence. I did not know nor honestly care. All that mattered was the placement of the next chestnut and keeping my movements as minimal and economic as possible in order not to dislodge any of its fellows.  
  
But when I had wedged in the last one and raised my eyes to the man before me, all thought of emancipation fled my mind. His eyes were shining, his color high, and it was worth every prick and sting to have that look directed at me and know that I was the cause.  
  
"Extraordinary," he said, barely more than a breath. "How does it feel?"  
  
Naturally, the question was intended to divine the level of my discomfort, but just then I was not thinking of physical sensation. I was basking in the glow of his pride and admiration. I had taken upon me an onerous duty, fulfilled it with honor and in doing so pleased him. It was a very small and silly thing, to be sure, and it seems laughable now to place such weight upon it. Perhaps it was the chemicals which the stimulation had released into my blood, or perhaps it was a premonition that a door had been opened for us with this act, but at that moment it seemed a very great thing.  
  
My assessment of how it felt was thus delivered with a giddy and breathless gasp: "Exhilarating."  
  
Holmes' mouth drew up into a grin. "You are interested in more then?"  
  
"God help me, yes."  
  
"Watson - " But he did not speak further. His hand clenched around the empty bowl, and he appeared to be struggling either to speak or to hold something back. In the end, he whirled around and exchanged the bowl for the rope he had left behind earlier.  
  
Holmes is an adept at knots and the art of ropes, having made a study of some of the methods of "Handcuff" Houdini and refining them with his own tricks. In a trice, he had my chest wrapped in several coils, binding my arms firmly in place. This was both a relief and a fiendish device. A relief because I no longer had to flex my muscles to maintain my position. Devil's work because it gave Holmes the means to apply additional pressure to my arms and thus to the chestnuts hidden beneath them.  
  
He had rigged some combination of knots behind my back that allowed him to increase or decrease the force with which the ropes constricted my torso. As soon as I had arrived at an equilibrium in one state, he would loosen the bonds a notch, causing more blood to flow into the abused area and with it a fresh wave of sensitivity. No sooner had the throbbing begun to ease than he would pull back again, driving the bristles back into their old holes and making new ones. I was not allowed to be complacent, either, as I was made to continually report on the state of my circulation, respiration, and discomfort. I let my eyes fall shut and rocked back and forth on the rolling crests and troughs of sensation.  
  
When this had continued for some minutes I began to feel quite distant, yet pleasantly so, as in the moments just before sleep hits. It was not that the pain in my arms and sides had disappeared, but it no longer demanded the entirety of my attention; indeed, I felt as if my attention were drifting away entirely.  
  
Finally, I stirred when I felt Holmes ease off the ropes and step away. Thinking we must be finished, I lifted my head, which had fallen forward as if in a doze, and looked around. Our corner of the club was populated only by a small circle of onlookers. Some lounged on a nearby couch and others stood around with a casual, detached air. This was clearly not a very rousing nor exotic demonstration; no doubt the regular members were rather jaded and expected a greater value of entertainment. Yet for myself, I had rarely spent a more exciting evening, and I was surprised to discover a rising sense of disappointment that it should be over. What I had entered into with such skepticism and apprehension I was now exiting with a whetted appetite and a half-formed notion that we might repeat the exercise or engage in a variation at a future date. It was after all not that different from Holmes' boxing rounds or a night spent bending elbows at the pub, and it had the advantage that it was something which engaged both of our attention.  
  
Wherever Holmes had disappeared to, he had not gone far, and returned to his position behind me within a few seconds. I rolled my shoulders and neck, expecting him to begin untying me, but instead I felt his hand rest upon my head. A tingle ran down my spine. Perhaps he was not finished with me after all. He had left the ropes in a position that would continue to hold my arms in place but did not pose any danger of numbing them entirely. As long as I did not move, the discomfort was quite tolerable.  
  
"Are you tired, Watson?" he asked, placing his other hand on my shoulder. It felt oddly stiff and cool, until I realized he had put on his gloves. That must have meant something, but my thoughts were slow and syrupy and I could not fathom what.  
  
"A little," I answered his query, surprised to find it was true. It was not so late, after all.  
  
"Are you able to continue? Do you need me to release you?"  
  
"No, you can go on." My heart jumped in anticipation, although I remained in a rather languid state.  
  
"Good. You have performed remarkably thus far. Are you enjoying yourself?"  
  
"More than I thought possible," I said honestly.  
  
"I'm curious, then, what you will think of this."  
  
The comforting weight of his hands lifted, only to be replaced a moment later on my head by what I instantly recognized to be another chestnut. He rolled the prickly fruit across my scalp, but thanks to the protection of my still full head of hair, the spines did not penetrate my skin. My nerve endings teetered on the verge of reporting pain but never quite tipped over the edge. Instead, they settled on an ever-changing array of tingles, shivers, itches and tickles that radiated across my head, into the tips of my ears, down my neck, into my chest, and further south. I grew warm and hummed with satisfaction. I was not in any danger of putting on a display like the other alpha had earlier, but I believed now to understand how he might have arrived at such a state.  
  
"I don't believe that's quite having the intended effect," I eventually admitted regretfully, although I could not entirely keep the smugness out of my voice.  
  
"What do you imagine my intention is, then?" Holmes leaned down to speak the question close to my ear, so low that I did not think it was audible to anyone else. His cheek brushed my ear and his hand rested on my head, such that he was all but embracing me. If I had turned my head just then, it would have been difficult to avoid rubbing my nose and mustache against his face. His omega perfume was either wearing off or his natural scent growing stronger, for the smell was quite unmistakable now, although perhaps only because of our close proximity.  
  
"Holmes, you smell..." Dangerous. Delicious. I wanted to warn him but did not know how. He confused me.  
  
"As do you," he replied before I could gather my wits, as if I had finished my statement. Perhaps I had. I was not thinking straight.  
  
He withdrew abruptly, leaving a cool emptiness behind that ached to be filled with his presence once more. Instead, he now came to stand in front of me, his legs spread on either side of my knees, and resumed rubbing the chestnut husk over my neck, my shoulders, my arms, and my chest. The constantly changing pressure and position left me tingling and gasping, half from the stimulation and half from the excitement of him pressing his attack. I watched his face, enthralled, as he carried out this exercise, fascinated by the way his eyes darkened and his nostrils flared in response to the hitches of my breath, the involuntary twitches of my body, the flush and tightening of my skin which his ministrations left in their wake.  
  
My nipples bulged out between two of the cords wrapped around me, and Holmes took extra care to pass the prickly chestnut over them, back and forth, over and over, until I was certain he was intentionally trying to elicit a very particular response from me.  
  
"Tell me to stop and I shall," he said, perhaps for the benefit of those who were watching or perhaps for my sake. I did not know, but God help me, I did not want him to stop. I knew what he was after, although for what purpose I could not begin to imagine; was it part of his plan? Was he trying to provoke me into stopping him and bringing the evening to a conclusion? Was this merely an excuse to end the game? I glanced down to see the stirring in my trousers were becoming as obvious as it felt. As I did my eye caught on Holmes' front, which was positioned directly before me. The way he stood, bent slightly forward, the bottom of his suit jacket gaped open, allowing me a view of the outline of his clearly non-omega member surging up against his belt. I did not think it was visible to anyone else, but it would give us away in a trice if it were. My arousal dissipated in the face of this new development.  
  
"Holmes," I whispered fiercely, my eyes darting back to his.  
  
His mouth had parted and he had just drawn in a breath. It reminded me of the look of anticipation that came over him just before the climactic notes were played in one of his favorite symphonies. He was perhaps about to say something, but the look on my own face must have brought him back down from whatever sphere he had visited.  
  
"Is something wrong?" he asked, his attentive eyes darting back and forth from my face to the ropes, my arms with the chestnuts still stuffed under them, and back again.  
  
I widened my eyes and pressed my lips together, not daring to so much as glance in the direction of the offending part, for fear it would draw other, unwanted attention to it as well.  
  
"I believe I have had enough," I said, hoping he understood that I meant quite the opposite.  
  
Holmes froze, momentarily derailed, but no more than a second later I was fairly able to discern the moment in which he became aware of the nature of his situation.  
  
"Of course," he said. He straightened and pulled his jacket together, making the adjustment appear completely natural and by-the-by.  
  
"I apologize, but I find that my interest has exceeded that which I feel comfortable displaying," I said in what I hoped was a gracious manner, including the surrounding guests in my admission.  
  
"I quite understand," Holmes answered me with a small smile.  
  
As for the rest, there was some scattered, half-hearted applause before people started drifting away in seek of more tantalizing stimulus. Shinwell Johnson was amongst them, and he came over to offer a few insipid comments on our performance before taking his leave to fetch Kitty Winter. I was glad to have avoided any further discussion or confrontation. My discomfort was increasing with the end of Holmes' attentions, my muscles stiff from being held immobile for so long and my arms and legs beginning to fall asleep.  
  
Hearing this, Holmes swiftly came around behind me and untied the knots. He leaned into me as he unwrapped the ropes, whether by design or accident I could not know, but in doing so I felt the unmistakable imprint of his continued excitement against the back of my neck. It was entirely possible, of course, that he was simply taking practical measures to conceal himself until his outward appearance was once again indistinguishable from that of a run-of-the-mill omega. I did not mind.  
  
Once my arms were freed, I let the chestnuts fall to the floor. Holmes reached in with his gloved hand to help dislodge two or three pieces whose spines had dug themselves into my skin far enough to gain a foothold. I could now see the damage which had been done. It was not too bad, all in all. The overall impression was that of a nasty rash, with one or two small cuts, but very little blood had been spilled in the end. The cool air on my moist, raw skin was unpleasant, however. I felt chilly and slow, although my disappointment at the unforeseen end to our encounter was tempered by Holmes' gentle hands and steady presence at my back.  
  
Kitty Winter appeared then, and Holmes steadied my elbow as I stood gingerly, shaking the blood back into my feet. She smiled and introduced herself before laying the white sheet she had brought over my shoulders. Holmes adjusted it until he was satisfied it covered me sufficiently, which I found both amusing and oddly touching. He then retrieved my clothes and together we set off with the omega leading the way toward a door that was tucked away behind a potted tree.  
  
It turned out the club had several smaller rooms at its disposal. We were led into one which was appointed as a bedchamber. I recalled Shinwell Johnson's smirking hints at the purpose of these back-room hideouts, and suggested I would only have need of the wash basin in the corner to wipe away the few traces of our adventure.  
  
Miss Winter looked skeptical. "You can do what you want, but you'll be happier later on if you come down nice and slow now. I'm telling you as you're green, I don't mean no disrespect. There's bandages and ointments in here if you want," she said, opening a cabinet.  
  
I saw the wisdom in the latter part of her suggestion, at least, and took a few items which I thought useful out of the cabinet. No sooner had I turned around, however, than Holmes plucked them out of my hands and wrangled me into one of the practical armchairs the room provided, where he proceeded to efficiently clean and tend to my wounds. I did not bother protesting. In truth, I coveted his hands on me, although I made every attempt to comport myself with dignity and decorum.  
  
Miss Winter, meanwhile, set her fists on her hips and got straight to business.  
  
"Porky Shinwell told me you were after a man, Mr. Holmes," said she. "I'll tell you straight, if I can help to put him where he belongs, I'm yours to the rattle."  
  
She readily agreed to share all she knew of Baron Gruner. As she spoke, her pale, pinched face reflected an intensity of hatred that spoke of deeply felt injustices. She blamed him for her current lot in life, having been used most cruelly by the Austrian. We discovered just how cruelly when she turned her back to us and began unbuttoning her dress.  
  
"I won't say pardon, as it's the best way to show you what kind of man Adelbert Gruner is."  
  
She pulled the dress off her shoulder far enough for us to have a glimpse of the ruin that was left of her back.  
  
"I've heard a bit about you, Mr. Holmes, and I reckon you've seen better and worse. Your doctor friend might know what did it."  
  
"Vitriol, I would say." Applied repeatedly. I was shaken. Even from that distance, I could see layers of scars, criss-crossed striations, new wounds applied over old ones. I could not begin to imagine the horrors the poor girl must have endured. I had known Gruner was a murderer, but I had never learned the circumstances of his wife's death. I could only hope, for her sake, it was kinder than what was done to Kitty Winter.  
  
"That's it." She shrugged her dress back on. "He's fond of the games, he is. I am too, for what it's worth. But it's not just games to him, that's the rub. You've got to see him when he's that far gone. It's like looking into the pits of hell. That lot out there's all for fun, that's all right." She jerked her head back toward the main club room. "A bit of a slap and a tickle never hurt no one. But let one like him get an omega under his hand, and there's no telling what he'll do. He doesn't care as long as it makes them scream. It's what saved me in the end. I knew how to scream."  
  
She offered to go to Violet de Merville and share with her what she had with us, but Gruner's fiancée was so inured to tales of his past wrongdoings it was doubtful even that would sway her.  
  
"My Lord, she must have a nerve!" Miss Winter exclaimed. "But I'll lay there's one thing that might shake her." She went on to tell us about a "beastly book" which Baron Gruner kept, a gruesome catalog of horrors including photographs, names, details, everything about each of his victims. He kept it well hidden and guarded, and she was doubtful we would be able to lay hand on it. But it was our only lead.  
  
Holmes agreed to take her along to see Miss de Merville next evening, in case the vivid evidence of what lay ahead for her should she throw her lot in with Gruner would cause her to see reason. She then left the two of us to "come down" as she had put it, and returned to her duties.  
  
"I apologize for getting carried away," Holmes murmured once we were alone, carefully wiping some excess ointment from my side.  
  
"Not at all," I assured him. "It was a most informative exercise." I watched as he put the finishing touches on the last bandage. The silence between us was thick. I did not know how to say that I had been quite as carried away as he. That I wished we had both been carried even further. To the furthest reaches of what was possible. "I might not have minded continuing it." The words dropped awkwardly into the space between us. Privately, I meant to say. In a safe place, away from prying eyes and judgmental minds.  
  
"It was clearly for the best that you stopped it when you did." Holmes' hand lingered on my side, warm and solid. He let his thumb caress the edge of the bandage, a wholly unnecessary gesture but one that I welcomed more than was good for either of us.  
  
It was really in that moment, I believe, that I understood what I wanted from him, and for us. What I wanted to give to him, and share with him. It was what we already shared: a life. What we already had shared in the past: a home. There had always been just one element missing from what was between us; although it was never missed. I had never considered it to be something that would ever be part of our friendship. It was not necessary. But tonight I had seen that it might be good. It could be the final element that we shared, something that we gave to each other.  
  
Tonight for the first time I saw Holmes enjoying his physicality, taking pleasure in his own body and in someone else's. I should modestly like to think in large part (wholly, really) it was because I was the one there with him. Because he enjoyed doing those things to me, and for me, and seeing my body respond the way it did, seeing the affection in my eyes and the devotion on my face. I wanted to make his body respond that way too. I wanted to let him know how extraordinary he was.  
  
He was no ordinary man, and the ordinary cares of an ordinary life were never enough to hold his interest. He needed master minds, criminal geniuses, and archnemeses to match wits with and stimulate his massive intellect. It only stood to reason that he would need extraordinary measures to stimulate his body as well. The cocaine and morphine were surely one attempt to do just that, to get his heart racing and his blood pumping the way mine - and, I believed, his - had tonight. "The games", as Miss Winter called them, could be another. And it turned out we both responded favorably to them, or at least to some of the practices. We could try other ones. Now that I had an idea of it all, I wanted to give him the chance to be on the receiving end, if he was still interested. I wanted to do all of that for him, and more.  
  
But I did not say any of that. How could I? It was all too fresh, the emotions and impressions too new and immature. All of that swirled through my mind in an instant, a vague and unformed mass of unconnected points. It would take them several days to coalesce into actionable ideas and plans.  
  
Instead, stupidly, I said, "I was thinking only of practical concerns. If anyone had found out we are both alphas..."  
  
"Quite." Holmes let go of me, leaving me with only the ghost of his fingers on my skin. "Well, I believe you'll live, Watson." He stood up and wiped his hands on a towel.  
  


~~.~~.~~

  
The next two or three days, I was stiff and sore, which was only to be expected. What I did not expect was the relish with which I luxuriated in each twinge and ache. My every movement reminded me of our actions at the Inferno Club. I reached for my teacup and felt the echo of ropes in the way the sleeve of my dressing gown pulled against my arm. I rolled over in bed and then did it again just to feel the bloom of soreness all along my sides. Every swing of my arm as I walked down the street shot sparks into my armpits, adding a smug spring to my step.  
  
The first morning, I even forewent replacing the bandages which Holmes had tenderly applied, in order that I might carry his handiwork with me a few hours longer. When I did remove them, it was to the realization that the more important and artful handiwork was underneath. I spent long minutes in the morning and evening examining the patterns of tiny cuts and bruises that mottled my sides and arms. I wanted to share them with Holmes, to show him how he had left his marks on me, but it seemed too intimate and tender a subject to broach, especially in light of the cordial manner we had parted that night, each of us returning to our own abode with no more than a light handshake.  
  
At night, I thrust my hand under my nightshirt as I lay in bed in the dark, running my fingers over the fine network of scabs that decorated my skin like a star-speckled sky. It was not a distant leap from there to re-visit the sites that Holmes had touched with the chestnut husk: my neck, my shoulders, my chest, my nipples. I scratched at them with my nail, in imitation of the piquant stimulation they had endured under Holmes' ministrations. I was able to induce a state of attention, but it was a poor relation of the fiery tempest that had begun to build under Holmes' hands, only to dissipate before its powerful surge could overpower me.  
  
We spoke of none of this, of course, despite meeting over dinner the subsequent evening so that I might keep abreast of developments in Miss de Merville's case. Kitty Winter's visit to her in Holmes' company was a disaster very nearly ending in a cat fight, with Holmes having to bodily drag the hostess from "Hell" out to the waiting cab.  
  
He had either foregone his omega perfume for the visit or washed quite thoroughly before coming back out, as I could not detect a trace of it this time. His smoky alpha scent was so welcome and appealing that I found myself drawing my chair in and leaning quite blatantly over the table in order to get closer to its source. It did not excite my sensibilities the way a ripe omega's scent might, but I imagined it would be quite satisfactory to get my nose pressed right up against the bonding ridge at the base of his neck whilst he dragged his fingers over my back and sides, probing my bruises and pressing his thumbs into the hollows of my reddened armpits.  
  
I was glad to have confirmation that my reactions at the club and the insights which derived from them were not a product of false chemistry. It was Holmes himself who captured my attention and toward whose pole my compass was aligned. My interest was not heightened when he presented himself as an omega. On the contrary, I was disturbed and had the impulse to restore his natural state, the way a mother cat will lick her kittens until they are very nearly raw if they chance to get another scent on them. In other words, Holmes' gender was not immaterial in the equation; it was his very alphahood that made him notable. I knew that this made me a criminal in the eyes of the law, even if my interest were localized to a single person. But my inclinations and affections had been present for so long - albeit unacknowledged - that I was not greatly troubled by the realization. It did not demand a shift in my perception of myself, but rather an acceptance of what had been there all along.  
  
I was not ready to lay myself bare before him so soon, however, even if only in a figurative sense this time. I did not want to distract his concentration from the very serious matter of the unfortunate Miss de Merville. There was another consideration as well, namely that he never made a single mention of our visit to the Inferno Club himself. I was not too put off by this; I knew he was a private person and often found discussions of a personal nature distasteful, or pooh-poohed matters of the heart as frivolous. His actions in the "games room" and afterward, when he paid me so patient attention, spoke louder to me than his current silence. He might simply have set those things aside for the time being, for the sake of his client. Or he might be working through his own confusion at what had passed between us. I would not press the issue, as there was no urgency in its resolution. I decided to let the matter rest for several days or longer, at least until the conclusion of the current case.  
  
One may imagine the pang of horror which passed through my very soul, then, when my eyes fell upon the headline proclaiming a vicious attack upon my most dear one not two days hence. I will refrain from repeating a description of my frantic journey to his bedside and the quite serious injuries which he had sustained.  
  
The surgeon who had attended him in the immediate aftermath of the assault prescribed that he remain confined to his rooms for the duration of his convalescence, or until he was fit to resume his usual activities, and I concurred. As this coincided nicely with Holmes' scheme to lull Gruner into a false sense of security by misleading him into the belief that Holmes lay at death's door, we received no complaint.  
  
Mrs. Hudson was good enough to air out my old room and allow me to bring over the few items I would need for a stay of several days. The poor woman had never found another lodger willing to put up with the noisome vapors and alarming sounds emanating from the main flat, to say nothing of the steady stream of visitors at all hours who found their way to Holmes' door. She would never admit it, but I knew she was too fond of Holmes to turn him out despite all of the disadvantages to allowing him a spot in her home. I confess I suffered from a similar weakness.  
  
Said scourge of landladies and doctors spent much of the first two or three days reclining in bed or lounging on his couch, poring voraciously over the newspapers and circulars he sent me out to fetch twice a day. By that time, however, a nervous boredom began to set in, and I caught him more than once gazing longingly at the case containing his needles. Against my better judgment, I allowed him to smoke as many cigarettes as he wished in order to dull the craving I knew he felt for stimulation, until my own head began to spin in the thick, heavy air.  
  
The third night, it seemed Holmes had reached his limit for inactivity. He prowled around the sitting room long past midnight, his eyes wild and his hands fluttering from his throat to his unwashed hair to his dry, chapped lips, muttering things that I half suspected to be the ravings of a madman. It was then that a notion began to germinate. In truth, it had been sown much earlier, but now it took root and gave me the first real glimpse of its young, green shoots. The soil was yet rocky, and I did not know whether the season was right, but I believed with a bit of attention, it would yet provide a fruitful harvest. All I needed were the appropriate tools.  
  
Next morning, while on my usual errands to procure tobacco and the latest broadsheets, I sent a note to Kitty Winter, not knowing anyone else other than Shinwell Johnson whom I might approach in such a delicate matter, and I would be damned to seek him out for guidance.  
  
I requested that any reply be directed to my practice, and it was thence that I hastened on my evening round. I was rewarded with a brief yet succinct letter which provided me everything I had asked for. I packed up a couple items from the surgery, and a quick detour to Fortnum's on my way back saw me equipped with everything I might need.  
  
When I arrived at Baker Street, I went directly up to my room (for so I considered it again already) to deposit my parcels before re-joining Holmes. His mood had deteriorated, and I entered to a barrage of reprimands for my tardiness. I made some excuse or other, but he was not to be mollified, and continued to sulk through the excellent dinner Mrs. Hudson prepared for us. The good woman had gone out of her way all week to tempt Holmes' fussy palate with delicate morsels and hearty dishes designed to hasten his return to full health. That night, he deigned to eat no more than a few spoonfuls of the rich consommé and did little more than pick at his roast.  
  
When he disappeared into his room, I thought he might have decided to turn in for the night and there would be no need for the distractions I had planned after all. I was glad if he was able to succumb to some much-needed slumber, although I was uncertain if I would have the nerve to follow through on my preparations another time, should they be postponed tonight. So it was that my heart leapt with both anticipation and no small amount of nervous agitation when Holmes re-emerged, bearing his beloved violin and bow along with a thunderous scowl beneath the white bandage which still adorned his head.  
  
He made a few attempts at playing a tune, pausing from time to time to curse the stiffness in his swollen and bruised knuckles. Even with my dull ear I could tell the execution was unsatisfactory, and Holmes' displeasure and frustration grew with each scratch of the bow over the strings. It seemed I would have my chance after all. I went up to my room to fetch the goods.

When I returned, Holmes had dropped into his chair, where he plucked disconsolately at his violin and stared absently into the cheerful fire crackling in the grate. Without saying a word, I proceeded to lay my offerings out on the desk: six clamp forceps, a bag of spring-hinged clothes-pegs, and a thick white candle. Holmes had turned his head to watch me over the back of his chair, but I kept my eyes steadfastly on my cache, adjusting the position of each piece until they were all lined up in a perfectly straight row. I did not want to give away a bias or hint at a preference by placing one more prominently than another. My heart raced as I imagined the uses we might make of the various instruments.  
  
Still avoiding any direct acknowledgment of Holmes, I went to the cabinet he had opened the night of our visit to the Inferno Club. I did not know what had happened to the collar after we left the club. Holmes had removed it from my neck while we were still in the seclusion of the quiet room Kitty Winter had led us to. I should have been glad to be rid of the thing, but it was not the joyous release I expected. Instead, it was a wistful sort of letting go, like laying down a trusty pistol when the fight was over, or leaving a good horse in its stable for the night after a long, hard ride. I understood that the collar's purpose had been served, and I did not desire to wear it openly around town. Yet I had already looked foward to the next time I might be allowed to wear it. Or hoped, rather, that there would be another opportunity.  
  
I was about to see whether tonight was that opportunity.  
  
The box which had originally contained it was in its place, but when I opened it, the collar was not there. I stirred the bracelets, spectacles, and other trinkets around in case it had slipped to the bottom, but I could not find it. It did not really matter, but it would have made certain explanations superfluous. Resigned to having to resort to a verbal opening gambit, I replaced the box and was about to close the cabinet when Holmes' voice came from behind me.  
  
"The blue bag." His back was turned once again, but there was an air of alertness about him that had my own senses pricking up. "It's in the blue velvet bag," he repeated.  
  
I swallowed over a dry throat. I supposed I should not be surprised that he would already have deduced what I was up to. My nervousness, which up to now had been confined to a few butterflies in my stomach, erupted in a prickle of sweat under my arms and a flush which I felt creeping up my ears.  
  
I looked inside the cabinet again. The bag was soon found, with the black collar inside. I was about to attempt putting it on myself with trembling fingers when I recalled that Holmes had asked me both to put it on and take it off for him the first time, and that he had put it on and taken it off me as well. That might simply have been practical, but I considered that there might also be a more profound purpose.  
  
I brought the collar to Holmes and stood before his chair, holding both hands before me with the collar draped across them.  
  
He lifted his bright eyes to mine, glittering in the light of the fire that burned in the hearth at his feet. He still bore the traces of the violent encounter which had been intended to put a final end to his dealings with Baron Gruner: his cheek a livid purple, his ear stitched and scabbed, his lip still puffed up where his own tooth had pierced it. His body had been spared larger insult both by his thick overcoat and the fact that his cowardly attackers had focused the brunt of their efforts on his formidable skull. In itself that pattern was a sure signal that their intent had been murderous rather than warning in nature. It was only due to Holmes' prodigious skill with his fists and stick that he was sitting before me, battered but alive, rather than moldering with the rest of Gruner's victims.  
  
My heart ached with the realization of the suddenness with which everything I held dear might be taken from me. Mary had withered slowly, but we had had time to mourn together. In life, she had been a steady, warm flame whereas Holmes was a flare, a flash of magnesium burning so bright it could blind, yet I could not look away. It was likely his end, when it came, would be as spectacular as his life. I knew that that I could not waste any more moments on thoughts of propriety, concerns of custom, or points of pride. _Carpe diem_ , Horace had said. I hoped that now I had stretched forth my hand to do so, there would be another hand there to hold me fast.  
  
Holmes rose slowly, leaving the violin to lie forgotten on his chair. His eyes never wavered from mine as he took the collar from me and wrapped it carefully around my neck, settling the buckle comfortably in the back as he had before. The scent and texture of the leather had a Pavlovian effect on me, and I could feel my blood shifting in my body in anticipation of what was to come. He caressed the collar the way he had my bandage, gently rubbing his thumb along the edge.  
  
"I'm afraid I have little practice with this, Watson," he said. His voice was low and warm, but with an undercurrent of shyness that was most uncharacteristic. "The small amount I believe to know comes from some esoteric texts and scant few conversations with old practitioners."  
  
"Shinwell Johnson?" I asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.  
  
"Does it matter? It is not he who stands before you now, but I."  
  
I wanted to answer yes. I did not want that rogue to have any part of this. At the same time, I recognized that was an illogical, emotional response. The other alpha had never done anything wrong nor even really been unkind. In fact, he had kept his every word and - I strongly suspected - acted in coordination with Holmes all along. I had bristled at what I perceived to be an encroachment on my territory, although I had no claim to any territory at all. The source of Holmes' information was, in the end, immaterial. The only thing that mattered was what he did with it, and I had every confidence he would do some very good things.  
  
"No. No, you are right, as always. Where you lead, I will follow," I vowed steadfastly, meaning it with all my heart.  
  
Holmes closed his eyes, the line between his brows betraying the difficulty that statement posed for him. When he finally opened his eyes again and spoke, it was with a voice that was rough with emotion. "Watson, that you will let me do this for you."  
  
I laid my hand over his against my neck. "No, not for me; for both of us. You can wear this if you would rather, I simply did not know another way to offer than ..."  
  
He smiled faintly. "We will see. We have started off like this, and it has been successful thus far. Now ..." Here he lowered his hand, and his somber demeanor was replaced by something much more like his usual cavalier confidence. "Show me what booty you have returned with from your voyages."  
  
I accompanied him to the desk, where he inspected the things I had laid out. He touched his finger to the forceps and plucked one of the clothes-pegs out of the bag to test its spring. The candle was subjected to a more thorough examination, being sniffed and scraped, and finally tasted.  
  
"Paraffin," he concluded after not too many seconds.  
  
"I have been assured it melts at the lowest possible temperature and should be quite safe."  
  
"I should like to test the others on myself first before using them on you, but for tonight I believe this should do," he said, curling his hand around the candle.  
  
The suggestion of a future encounter before this one had even begun was enough to put a broad smile on my face, and I clapped him on the shoulder, feeling rather puffed up and not quite sure what to do next.  
  
Luckily, Holmes was not so useless. He quickly mapped out the next few steps. The first one saw me running down to Mrs. Hudson, although not before tying a cravat over the collar to avoid any untoward questions. Of his landlady, I begged use of a large piece of American cloth with the excuse that Holmes was embarking on an experiment involving liquid wax, and did not wish to damage her floors. I further explained that she need not worry about any noises that might come from upstairs, and that we would not be requiring anything further that night. This all had the advantage of being more or less true, and if she was suspicious that Holmes should suddenly have become solicitous of her property after years of carelessly abusing it, she did not let on. The only small lie concerned the floor, as it was actually the bedsheets we wished to spare. However, it would have been a great deal more difficult to explain why the experiment needed to take place in Holmes' bed.  
  
I met Holmes in his room, where he had already stripped the bed and removed his dressing gown and shirt in order to minimize any chance of flammable materials coming close to the flame. He had turned the lamp down as well, for atmospheric reasons rather than practical ones, I presumed. This left the room dim and shadowy, but well enough illuminated that we should not be concerned about accidentally knocking anything over.  
  
I spread the impregnated cloth on the mattress and started to dispose of my own top layers. Holmes was at his dresser, poking around the bottles and tins he kept scattered across its surface.  
  
"What are you doing?" I asked, more to fill the silence than because I had any suspicions.  
  
"I am applying some of my special blend. I dare say it will make this all more pleasant for you," he answered rather quickly, holding up a flask with a vaporizer attached.  
  
I was at his side in a trice, prising the bottle from his fingers. "Have I not made it clear I hate the stuff? Holmes, all of this..." I set the perfume down and tried to calm my breaths. It defied all logic and sense that he still had not understood. I took his hand in both of mine, but he only let it lie limply in my grasp, as if he were not certain whether to withdraw. I continued, once I was sure of what I wanted to say: "This does not spring from some vulgar desire of a lonely relict and widower. I do not want an omega to quench my thirsts. It is you. Only you." His hand twitched in mine. I pressed it firmly, and he now returned the gesture, clenching my fingers as in a vise.  
  
"I am an alpha," he stated, as if to make sure I understood the term.  
  
I chuckled. "As am I, and you do not appear unduly troubled by it."  
  
"Quite the contrary." His answering smile was endearingly delighted, and I could not help my face broadening to reflect his.  
  
"My sentiments precisely," I agreed, and we proceeded with our preparations with carefree hearts.  
  
Once we had all of the equipment at hand, a pitcher of water at the ready, I lay down on the bed. Holmes bade me lie on my back, both because he deemed it would be an easier position for me to hold steady for many minutes, and because he wanted - needed, he said - to see my face.  
  
"Magnificent," he murmured, taking in my weathered and well-used body. He sat beside me, shirtless and glorious, and ran his hands lightly over my shoulders and chest, eliciting goose pimples and a shiver that went much deeper than the surface.  
  
I wanted to touch him too, to catch his hands and kiss them, span my hand around the thigh that bulged beside my hip, but I did not know if that was part of this game, if I was allowed to act or only to be acted upon. And so I did nothing, but endeavored to demonstrate through my body, eyes, and voice how I treasured his attentions.  
  
"You are quite healed then?" he inquired, lifting my arm gently to check the skin underneath. It had been a week since our visit to the Inferno Club, which was more than sufficient time for the superficial scratches to disappear.  
  
"I am a blank slate for you to paint once again," I quipped. I meant it half in jest and half in earnest. I did not expect to be left with any bruises or scrapes to hoard this time, but perhaps something of this night would remain imprinted on me in some way. My words seemed to resound with him as well, for his eyes turned dark and hungry, and his fingers traced mindless patterns on my skin, as if sketching out his masterpiece.  
  
Once he had looked his fill and assured himself that his palette was whole and unbroken, he lit the candle. Together we watched the yellow flame spring to life in the dusky space, casting eerie shadows in the far corners but bathing the two of us in a little sphere of quiet intimacy. The soft wax began to glisten and shimmer as it fell victim to the heat. The candle was broad enough that its top served as a basin in which the wax gathered in a clear pool.  
  
The first virgin drops he tested on the inside of his own arm before bending over my chest and carefully dribbling a thin stream of melted paraffin onto my sternum. The flash of heat was bright and instant, but did not last long.  
  
"How is it?" Holmes asked, his gaze sweeping over my face, no doubt seeking any hint of undue discomfort or displeasure.  
  
"Wondrous," I assured him, my breath quickening under the pool of rapidly cooling wax.  
  
Satisfied, he began decorating my body in earnest. It seemed he took my initial quip to heart, for he labored as an artist at an easel, his mien a study in concentration as he considered where to place each stroke. Although I had eyes for none else but him, I could not anticipate where the next lash of heat would hit. Now my shoulder, now my stomach. A line drawn across my throat just above the collar, which had me gasping. I knew there was no danger, that the small amount of wax he deposited in each place was neither hot nor concentrated enough to burn my skin, yet my body fought to flinch away from every drop.  
  
It was a different game than we had played with the chestnuts, yet at its most basic the same: it demanded the utmost in concentration and control from both of us, I on the physical plane and he on the mental. The pain was a constant flash point, both trial and tantalus. Like the sun, it was the thing which made me flinch and look away, yet drew me inexorably toward it in search of life and comfort. It was not a goal in itself, though. It was the path and gate which led me to the pleasure gardens of Xanadu, a place I could not nor did I want to wander alone but only in the company of my guide and captain. And it was my fondest hope that he find an equal amount of fulfillment there as I.  
  
To judge by the enthusiasm which he devoted to his task, it looked as if he were enjoying the journey, at least.  
  
He worked for several minutes in silence even as I became more frequently vocal, hissing and panting my responses to his ministrations. He sometimes paused for quite some time to allow a goodly amount of wax to gather in the concave top of the candle. This might then be spilled in a single splash on my stomach that seared like a direct hit from a geyser of lava, or distributed in several smaller doses describing a molten figure across my pectoral. The barrage on my senses became almost overwhelming, and I lost all sense of time and proportion.  
  
Finally, in a moment of clarity, I discerned a pattern: he was concentrating his efforts on my upper chest, uninjured shoulder, and stomach, with occasional detours along my arms. He avoided altogether the shoulder through which the Jezail bullet had passed, as well as my nipples. I presumed he was trying to spare me undue pain, or was perhaps honestly fearful that the wax was too hot for the sensitive tissue. I did not think it would be, and I was curious in any case to find out how it would feel. I was wracking my fuzzy brain for the words to express my desire when Holmes' voice sounded close to me.  
  
"Watson, look at me if you please."  
  
I opened my eyes, unaware that they had fallen shut. Holmes hovered over me, the candle burnt down close to his hand. His mouth was parted slightly, his eyes alight with the flame of the candle flickering in them. I recognized the same expression of anticipation he had at the Inferno Club just before I called off the event. This time, I was not going to stop him, no matter what might happen.  
  
He held the candle very close to my body and, as if he had divined my thoughts, slowly let several drops fall directly onto my nipple, his eyes flicking back and forth from my chest to my face. It felt as if a line of fire ran straight from there to the base of my prick. I could not hold back the guttural sound which burst forth from my throat.  
  
Holmes smeared the still-soft wax around the nub, checking my reaction as he did.  
  
"More," I said, clenching my jaw.  
  
He complied. Again, the drops hit my nipple, encasing it in liquid heat. Again, that heat ran down some internal canal and landed in my rapidly inflating prick. Again, Holmes spread the wax liberally around the area to hasten its cooling. As it hardened, it pulled the skin tight, adding a new dimension of sensation to my already buzzing nerves.  
  
I nodded. "More."  
  
"Extraordinary," Holmes whispered, and dropped yet more hot wax on top of my throbbing nipple. This, too, was followed by a thorough massage that included an amount of squeezing and pinching which was quite unnecessary for the promotion of cooling.  
  
Another growl escaped me. My entire body was taut, my fists clenched and my thighs hard as I struggled to neither squirm away nor lay hold of Holmes and pull him down to me.  
  
"Holmes, please," I pleaded, not knowing what to ask for. I wanted him to continue, yet I wanted something else, too, something more.  
  
"Is it enough?" He was teasing, but there was an intensity to his words that betrayed his own desire to push past the point we had reached last time. "Has your interest exceeded what you are comfortable displaying?" he parroted my own words back to me, scraping the wax off my nipple with his fingernails, only to coat it again once it was freed.  
  
"Damn you," I growled, by which I meant: more!  
  
He smirked and proceeded to attend to my other nipple in a similar manner. I was in an agony of ecstasy, my chest screaming for respite even as my prick demanded to be included.  
  
"It's too bad I didn't choose the forceps," Holmes mused after the third or fourth dose of hot wax on that side. "You respond so prettily to being pinched." The last word was punctuated by a sharp twist between his thumb and forefinger.  
  
The thought of him applying the surgical instruments to my tender chest provoked a carnal urge of such vehemence that my prick began to leak inside my drawers.  
  
"They're still there," I reminded him, looking toward the door leading out to the sitting room and not caring how desperate or wanton I appeared.  
  
"Another time," he said. I still had my head turned when he poured wax onto the first nipple again. I was not expecting it, and the sudden renewed shock on my cooled flesh made me cry out.  
  
He tipped the candle again to direct a dollop right into the hollow of my navel. It felt as if the little tongue of heat were worming its way straight into my gut, spreading the warmth even further south until it would have been pointless to deny that I was rampant.  
  
I boldly ventured to look at Holmes' lap. The tentpole in his trousers was testimony enough.  
  
"Watson..." There was a warning in his voice but desire as well. A warning against the dangers of such uncharted waters. A desire to explore new territories together. A caution against this new course, which led us afoul of the law. A longing for consummation of what was long confirmed.  
  
There was but one possible reply: "Yes. Yes." A thousand times yes! I reached for my flies, pausing to see if he would stop me, but he did not.  
  
"Go on," he said, his eyes wide and his chest rising and falling with his heavy breaths.  
  
I quickly opened the placket and freed my cockstand. It throbbed and bounced in time with the pulsing in my veins. My only desire was one simple word: "More."  
  
Holmes closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, giving up all pretense of remaining detached. He set the candle down on the small table beside the bed and twisted his body so that he could rest his elbows on either side of my head and scent me. His nose probed behind my ear, down my neck where he nudged and mouthed at the collar, and back up again, his hot breath sending shivers of need through my body. I could no longer restrain myself, and flung my arms around him, causing the hardened wax on my body to crack and fall in a rain of pellets onto the stiff cloth beneath me.  
  
I murmured his name over and over, burrowing my nose into his hair and neck where I greedily sucked up the fragrant aroma of his musk. It was pure alpha, thick and dark, yet I marveled at how good and right he smelled, how perfectly suited his lean, alpha body was for my arms, how beautiful he was covered in sweat, half undressed, his hair falling into his eyes as he fairly rutted on top of me.  
  
When my nose, my lungs, my very being were saturated in his essence, he finally, finally lifted his head to cover my mouth with his. The taste of him was ambrosia, the scent in my nostrils from his most intimate places become liquid and sweet, and I eagerly lapped and sucked at his mouth, his neck, wherever I could reach. The scent gland at the base of his neck was swollen and hot, ripe for a bond, but even through the heady cloud of lust that had overcome me, I knew I must not bite. There were no well documented cases of alpha-alpha bites resulting in a true bond, and many that ended with lymphatic poisoning. There was too great a risk, and in any event it was not something I would do without leave.  
  
He was equally fascinated by my bonding ridge, sucking and licking at it as if he could draw its serum out through my skin. I thrilled in the sensation and laid my hand across the back of his head to press him more firmly against me, the other arm wrapped around his ribs in an iron grip. I half feared, half hoped to feel the pinch of his teeth but he was as circumspect as I, contenting himself with worrying at the skin until I knew I would sport a magnificent purple bruise for the next few days.  
  
After that it was my mouth which again captured his attention, and I eagerly returned his interest, becoming bolder in my vocal approval and encouragement. This appeared to please him greatly, and he tangled his fingers in my hair to hold my head in place that he might drink his fill of the murmurs I exhaled into his waiting mouth. His alpha member was like a rod of iron across my groin, my own crushed against his hip bone as he ground into me. He slid one hand between our chests to abrade my nipple with the hard-edged bits of dried wax that clung there, rolling them around and digging them in, sending electric jolts through my chest and into my gut to amplify the pulsating beat in my loins.  
  
His movements became more frantic and uncontrolled, his voice repeating my name interspersed with unwarranted praises ever more ragged. If I did nothing more, the dramatic conclusion of our interlude was mere moments away. Yet there was one more thing I shyly hoped that he would grant me.  
  
"The candle," I said when he relinquished my lips for a moment to take a breath. "Use the candle on me again."  
  
Holmes raised his head, and I dare say it was the first time I ever witnessed those clear grey eyes with a veil cast over them. He was one step removed, whether lost in his head or perhaps in his body I did not know, but it took a moment before he blinked and his wits returned to him. My heart beat strong and proud in that moment, and I vowed I would return him to this state as soon and often as practically feasible.  
  
I glanced down and lifted my hips against his to make my meaning clear: I wanted the hot wax there, on my most tender and intimate part. I wanted to know that searing sting, to surmount that Everest of agony, and I believed Holmes would not need much persuasion to inflict the treatment.  
  
I was correct in my surmise. "You are more devious than I imagined," he replied, his voice soft and edged with dark approval. He pressed one more deep kiss into the skin beneath my jaw before lifting himself to retrieve the candle. He tipped the excess over-heated paraffin that had accumulated into the candle saucer, then settled again on the bed beside me, on his knees this time and pressed hard against my hip.  
  
He took a moment to survey the wreck he had made of me. The skin of my chest and stomach was red and patchy, scattered with the broken traces of our activity. Crumbs of wax hung tangled in the hairs on my chest and under my arms, where some stray rivulets had run down. My hair was untamed and ruffled from his hands and my own thrashings. Careful as Holmes had been in attaching it, the collar nevertheless had chafed and rubbed, and my neck felt hot and swollen. And there was my weeping cockstand, purpled and bulging, the ridged knot at the base already beginning to swell. It would not reach its full dimensions without contact with an omega's channel - my experiences with my beta spouse had taught me that - but that did not mean it was tame or unreactive.  
  
We watched together as he tipped the candle, spilling a stream of liquid wax onto my sack. My mouth fell open in a silent scream and I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing my hips to remain still lest I jostle Holmes and cause him to drop the candle. The ache was deep and long, and I thought perhaps we had found my limit. But then came Holmes' voice, forming words like "astounding", "brave", "magnificent". I opened my eyes to find his gaze locked on my face and knew I would go beyond any limit to replicate the expression I beheld there.  
  
"More," I whispered.  
  
His reply was an echo of my name, followed by the demanded portion. This time, however, the searing pain was succeeded by a cooling touch, spreading the paraffin into a thin layer that rapidly dissipated the heat. The technique had the additional excellent advantage of placing Holmes' fingers on my balls. Another round of wax was followed by another touch, this time just brushing the ring of my knot.  
  
"Yes, that, more!" I was beyond decency.  
  
Holmes did not mind. He became more bold with his strokes, travelling up my length and wrapping his waxy fingers around me, squeezing and jerking until I had to beg him to leave off.  
  
From there he established a relentless routine. Each application of the flaming liquid was followed by a stroke or three, the torture prolonging the pleasure, following the same pattern as the pair with the violet ray had practiced at the club.  
  
But whereas the omega then had counted out his sentence until his release, I did not. I could not. The rapid back-and-forth between agony and ecstasy, the stinging assaults trading off with the rough caresses, sent me into a tailspin of sensation that had me quite insensate. I felt the approach of the incumbent climax like an ocean swell, implacable and unyielding. I babbled something, perhaps a warning or a plea.  
  
"Watson, yes," came the breathless reply, the hand on my prick unrelenting.  
  
I gave up all resistance at his word, and my release came bursting forth, splattering my stomach with the thick gush of my seed. The first wave was followed by a second and a third, and then Holmes was upon me as if my scent were water and he a desert nomad. His kisses were barely more than frantic nips and panted gasps. He crouched over me, scrabbling at his trousers until he was able to get his hand inside.  
  
"Holmes, let me, please," I begged, putting my hands on his hips, but he was too far gone to respond or perhaps even understand what I offered. Rather than force the matter or interrupt his progress, I settled for touching him wherever else I could: his face, his back, his chest. I deposited kisses of encouragement and praise on his head, words of gratitude and approbation on his ears as he worked his fist furiously inside his trousers.  
  
Finally he lifted his massive cockstand out of his drawers and, with a deep groan, spilled over my stomach, splashing out a white rain that seemed as hot as the wax had been on my overstimulated skin.  
  
We did not exchange many more words that night. They were not necessary. We had said what was in our hearts through our bodies and deeds. We cleaned up as well as we could with the basin and pitcher in Holmes' room, remade the bed, and lay together until shortly before dawn, when I reluctantly retreated to my room upstairs before the maid came in to stoke the fire.  
  


~~.~~.~~

  
The rest of the tale occurred very much as outlined in print. When we discovered that Baron Gruner was planning to leave the country, I was sent in to distract him with a ruse while Holmes and Kitty Winter filched the damning book.  
  
The Baron was as pleasing to behold and cunning to deal with as his reputation proclaimed. That scent and demeanor which made him irresistible to omegas I found merely foul and repulsive. I was meant to play a fawning collector of Chinese pottery, but I was so angered by the memory of what he had done to Miss Winter and the lurid secret of what happened to his wife, that I made an utter hash of my part. He saw through me right away, of course, although I believe that would have held true no matter how artful my deception. His was indeed a mind for the ages, like Moriarty, and like the same, it was his overzealous faith in his own superiority, and the need to prove it, which led to his downfall. If Baron Gruner had been a little stupider or less bent on silencing his opponents, he would still have his sight today, and Kitty Winter would not be sitting in Brixton on charges of vitriol-throwing. She is satisfied with her sentence, though, and has told me she would sit a hundred times as long and more for one more chance to exact her revenge on the man who ruined her and countless other omegas.  
  
Either way, the notorious diary was sufficient in the end to convince Violet de Merville to abandon her suitor. Baron Gruner's book was truly a malleus maleficarum. He kept a meticulous journal of all the tortures he had enacted on hapless omegas across the globe. I had but a brief glimpse of the compendium before Sir James arrived to retrieve the evidence and bring it to the Baron's fiancée, yet I am still haunted by the piteous men and women who adorned its pages. Their faces were contorted in pain, fear, and despair, whilst their bodies were subjected to the most horrific and sickening acts. In more than one image, the Baron's initials were visible carved, burnt, or etched into his victims' skin. I did not doubt that Kitty Winter bore similar marks somewhere on her maltreated body, unless they had been obliterated by the vehemence with which he had repeatedly enacted his treatments on her.  
  
It was a caution to both Holmes and me of how tender emotions may be perverted, and I thought perhaps to see in it a clue to Holmes' reticence in the area where the emotional and the physical overlap. I do not believe he ever fell into the clutches of a monster the likes of Gruner: I have seen the glory of his unclothed form, and it does not bear the marks of any abuse other than that which he has inflicted on himself. But there are other kinds of cruelty that may leave scars of a different kind. Like their physical counterparts, they can never be removed, but they may be soothed and softened with a steady balm of kindness and tender attention. It is that which I strive to give my one true and honest friend, my life's companion, through the dedication of my body and my will to him, and his in turn to me.  
  
We have continued to explore our mutual interest, with the Inferno Club and its members playing a not insignificant role as inspiration and reference, which is why I have agreed to pen this account. It is my hope that through it, more seekers and questioners will find the courage to rattle their own cage and open their eyes, hearts and minds to themselves and others.  
  
Still, when all is said and done, Holmes and I prefer the privacy of our own rooms, shut away from the world and out of the reach of its staid strictures. The challenge is always part of it, the edge of danger dancing with us, but equally so the affirmation of our connection, the acceptance of those parts of us we may have difficulty understanding ourselves, and which the world rejects utterly. Here, between us, in our touches and shared breaths, in our pinches and cries, our bites and slaps and kisses, there is no cruelty or selfishness, but only love and devotion. For then, for now, and for always.  
  


FIN


End file.
